


Infraction

by Latart0903



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Fratboy!Shiro, Fraternity/Rugby Rivalry, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, M/M, Sort of a Sports AU, streaking, stupid pranks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latart0903/pseuds/Latart0903
Summary: Keith has a problem.Shiro is a frat boy that shamelessly flirts with him.And said frat boy belongs to a particular fraternity that Keith has sworn to hate. Literally. He signed a sheet of paper.But that’s not the problem.The problem is that Keith might actually like him... and it’s becoming obvious.





	1. Airborne Underwear and Wasted Sporks

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a Frat/college AU! I know, I’m so original, right? I love the current frat AUs the fandom has and was inspired to write my take on the matter. And I figured, one hundred frat AUs is awesome, but one hundred and one is just that much more awesome, no?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Infraction: a violation or infringement of a law, agreement, or set of rules.  
> (I'm not a dictionary, I'd like to thank google)

The team’s rules are as follows:

  1. Play your fucking heart out.
  2. You should try to come to practice.
  3. Everyone gets a nickname. You get no say in your nickname.
  4. Rookies must do what they are told. 
  5. Saturday’s a rugby day. It’s also a drinking day. Drinking before, during, and after the game is permitted and encouraged.
  6. You cannot change out of your uniform after the game. Your hard-earned dirt and blood belong at the afterparty. Wear them with pride.
  7. You must pledge your undying hatred for the Sigma Phi Epsilon fuckbois. Associating with the fraternity is forbidden. May those self-righteous, cooler-than-thou bastards choke on their red Solo cups and die a slow and painful death.



 

Keith glanced up at the ragtag group of guys that comprised the Garrison Rugby Club and back down at the rules in his hand. Unlike high school, fighting was sort of frowned upon in college. Unless you attended frat parties where testosterone flowed like Natty Light and each party was inevitably broken up by a bro-brawl. Keith would never ever join a fraternity. He couldn’t stand the type of people they attracted or the fact that they were essentially buying friends. It was just a way for the popular kids to easily find each other in college. A fucking continuation of high school. 

 

But a rugby club? A gathering of like-minded guys who were rough around the edges and enjoyed a little blood and controlled violence in the form of a contact sport?  _ And _ who would supply him with shitty but free beer? Keith could get behind that. He signed the paper and joined the team.

 

The reason for the rugby team’s hatred of fraternities, or at least one particular fraternity, was that the poorly-maintained rugby field butted up against Sigma Phi Epsilon’s backyard. The fraternity would have parties and throw trash and crushed Solo cups onto the rugby field. The rugby team would clean the field before practice or a game and then get shitfaced and toss their beer cans over the fence and onto the fraternity’s property. And this battle had raged on since the beginning of time. Or at least since the history of beer that resembles piss both in appearance and taste.

 

After a grueling Thursday night practice, the team captain, a sixth-year senior the team called Ballsac (yes, that was his nickname), drove his pickup onto the field and blasted Johnny Cash while the team drank and discussed the lineup for their first home game on Saturday. They polished off a bottle of bourbon and a disgustingly obscene amount of Milwaukee's Best, tossed their empty tallboys over the fence, and graciously returned a trash bag containing the cups and condom wrappers that they had collected off of the field prior to practice.

 

\-----

 

As was expected of a rookie, Keith arrived on the field an hour before their first home game on Saturday. Ballsac was already there, lining what he could of the absolutely-trashed field.

 

“Must’ve been one hell of a party,” Keith mused.

 

Ballsac was fuming has he walked over to join the small gathering of rookies. “I am so beyond pissed! I can’t even see straight. They just keep saving their trash and they’re dumping it all over the field. I hate Sig Eps!”

 

Keith grabbed a trash bag and looked at the daunting task in front of him. He didn’t want to overstep his boundaries but… “Would they stop if we stopped? Like, we could just be bigger than them and not dump our beer cans in their backyard.”

 

“They will  _ never _ stop! And they started it! They’re privileged little bitches and this is just what they do. They shit on people they think are below them. And if this field were used for cheerleading practice they’d have no goddamn problem and keep their trash to themselves!”

 

Keith quickly conceded and nodded in agreement even though he thought his idea was worth a shot. But he’d only been a part of the team for a meager four weeks. 

 

A fellow rookie -Keith couldn’t recall whether Hunk was his nickname or his actual name- collected bottles and flattened cups next to him. “I sort of agree with you,” he quietly offered. “Maybe when we’re seniors and in charge of the team, you know?”

 

However, Keith’s mind was quickly changed during the game when the frat boys proceeded to hang over their fence and cheer for the away team. Glaring at the whooping bros and their stupid snapback hats, Keith’s blood boiled as he tried to watch the game from the sidelines. _Oh, bitch, it’s on._

 

Keith finally got the chance to unleash his fury with fifteen minutes remaining in the second half. He was relatively small but scrappy and he loved the look of surprise on his opponent’s faces after he tackled them. On the sideline closest to the frat house, the teams organized themselves for a scrum and Keith couldn’t believe that the frat guys were still standing there, booing and heckling their own university's team. Granted it was a Division Three club sport and not varsity. And the team really was terrible. But still.

 

The team lost possession of the ball again and as the scrum broke apart, Keith could hear one member of the fraternity trying to convince the others to stop booing. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder. The “nice” frat guy was well-muscled like the rest, maybe even more so. And yes, he was pretty damn cute.  _ OK, so there’s one guy out of the entire house that’s ten percent less douchey than the rest. Big fucking deal. _

 

“Look alive, rookie!” Ballsac shouted.

 

Keith pushed the cute guy out of his head as he prepared for a collision with the opposing team’s offense rushing at him. He watched the winger with the ball shift his weight for a fake-out to the right. Anticipating the move, Keith dove at the player, but took a cleat to the face as they tumbled to the ground. He heard both his teammates and the frat guys gasp and cringe as they watched.

 

_ Shit, that hurt. _

 

After helping him up, Ballsac clapped Keith on the back. “Fuck yeah, rookie! That was rockstar! You all right? Get cleaned up, I’ll put Trash Stache in for the rest of the game.”

 

Keith nodded and looked over at the frat guys again, who were all staring with shock at the amount of blood gushing from Keith’s nose, lip, and… well, face in general.

 

The “nice” frat boy leaned over the fence. “Are you OK?!” he called, eyes full of genuine concern. He, too, wore a backwards snapback; a long wisp of white hair spilled out of the opening and flowed in the light breeze.

 

Yeah, Keith was probably showing off, but he wanted to make this boy flinch. He blew his dark, sweaty hair out of his face and, in the process, spat a plume of blood in the frat boy’s direction. “Never better,” he said with a grin before turning to sprint across the field. Once on the other side, he peeled off his number 2 jersey, handed it to his replacement, and then wiped the blood off of his face. Glancing back at the fence, the same boy was still standing there, looking as if he was unable to tear his eyes away, mouth hanging open. Keith told himself it was probably because of the copious amount of dried blood on his face, but liked to think that it might be for other reasons.

 

\-----

 

As was customary, the away team stuck around for beer and drinking songs immediately following the game. They took turns launching their empties over the fraternity’s fence, but as they became more inebriated, they began hurling full beer cans. After putting a few holes in the fence, they continued on to drink at the house that Ballsac, Stone, Swamp Thing, and Marshmallow rented just off of campus. 

 

\-----

 

Each practice made Keith hate the fraternity even more. They would show up to practice and find the goalposts painted neon pink. And then the rugby team would return the favor by spray-painting penises all over the sidewalk in front of the fraternity house. There was one particular day where the field was covered in bras and the fraternity had left a friendly note taped to the goalpost:

 

_ Probably the most action you guys will see all year. _

 

Had they literally thrown a “support our cause by taking off your bra and donating it to throw onto the rugby field” party?

 

At this point, Keith wouldn’t put it past them.  _ Assholes.  _ “We spend more time cleaning than actually practicing!” he griped to the other rookies.

 

Hunk picked up a zebra-print bra and held it at a safe distance to deposit into a garbage bag held by Pidge, the rookie fullback.

 

Pidge wrinkled their nose. “I don’t want to know where that’s been. Careful, Hunk, don’t get hand herpes.”

 

“That’s- that’s not a thing is it? Hand herpes? Maybe I’ve heard of that before. Oh man, I should get gloves.”

 

Pidge smirked with amusement and let their roommate take off in a panicky search for latex hand protection.

 

The team’s most senior tighthead prop, Stone, ripped the love note off the goalpost and crumpled it. “They’re taking it way too far, way too early in the semester. What the hell are they going to do at the end of the year? Just blow up the damn field?”

 

“Probably would be an improvement on the current field,” Ballsac observed. The team was lucky if the university mowed the field once a month. And there were divots so deep that Hunk could easily hide himself by lying in them. He’d actually tried and had almost succeeded in evading his rookie initiation.

 

The university wouldn’t spare a dime until the team could actually win a game or draw a significant crowd. Last year’s game day attendance average was three people. Three. And that always included at least one injured player who dragged himself out of bed to cheer for the team. The remaining balance of attendees usually depended on how well the members of the team could maintain a romantic relationship. It was a rugby club, not a “we’re charming, freshly-showered, and good at dating” club.

 

“One of these days, I’m going crash one of their parties after practice and get blood all over their stupid date-rape couch,” Stone seethed.

 

Keith kind of liked that idea. “We could all rush in and leave muddy handprints everywhere on the walls. It would be a bitch to clean at the very least. Grind dirt and blood into the carpet.”

 

“Yeah, Dorothy! I like the way you think!” Stone high-fived Keith.

 

“Please don’t tell me that nickname is going to stick,” Keith complained.

 

“Already done, amigo.”

 

_ Dammit. _   
  


Keith had purchased his cleats at the nearby Goodwill and had opted for a pair of lightly-used, red Adidas. Unfortunately, being the only one on the team with red rugby boots, the team’s seniors started calling him Dorothy almost immediately. Being from Kansas didn’t help either.

 

“So what do you boys think? This Thursday? It’s their annual toga party...” Stone was obviously into this idea, eyes almost maniacal as he rubbed his hands together.

 

Ballsac sighed with resignation. “I’ll make an announcement once everyone gets here and see what the rest of the team thinks. Now let’s get all these… unmentionables cleaned up. If the director of club sports rides by on his shitty little golfcart, I’m going to get my ass chewed out at the next meeting.”

 

\-----

 

The team got blitzed after Thursday night’s practice before crashing the infamous annual Sigma Phi Epsilon toga party. There weren’t any injuries so many resorted to arming themselves with fake blood or just good old plain mud from the field. But Stone ripped a scab off of his knee just for the occasion.

 

They snuck around the fence and to the front, waiting behind the shrubbery while a sorority entered, donning their draped togas.

 

“I think the Delta Gammas didn’t have any clean sheets so they resorted to pillowcases,” Pidge observed.

 

After the barely-dressed gaggle cleared, the team ran up to the porch and burst through the front door, tracking in dirt, and immediately started smearing their muddy hands on the framed composites on the wall. Stone successfully marked the upholstery in his immediate vicinity with his own blood. Most of the attendees shrieked with disgust or stared open-mouthed at the disruption. Or maybe because the team had the gall to attend a party dressed in their ripped and soiled practice gear. Probably a combination of the two.

 

As the newest rookies, Keith, Pidge, and Hunk were looking to impress the senior players, so they snuck toward the kitchen to deliver a particularly devastating blow. Hunk and Pidge planned to destroy the keg pumps so that the party had almost no alcohol supply. Plus, no kegs meant less cups thrown onto the field. Acting as the lookout, Keith peered around the corner and watched the fraternity president storm into the main room and tantrum at the destruction the team had caused in less than thirty seconds.

 

“No!! No! You cannot- Oh my god. Gross! Leave!”

 

More fraternity brothers arrived on the scene, one quickly getting in Ballsac’s face. “Bro! How did you get in here?”

 

“The front door, fuckboi. Get out of my face. We’re just returning your trash,” he spat, dumping out the garbage bag of padded bras in the middle of the room while the team’s largest and most intimidating forwards all gathered around their team captain. 

 

Keith smirked. The frat boys knew they were outmatched and wouldn’t dare try to fight the entire rugby team. Nevertheless, the others finished their mess-making and quickly left. Hunk and Pidge successfully sabotaged all three keg pumps and dashed toward the front door. Keith followed, still looking around for the best use of the mud covering his hand. He spotted the “nice” frat guy who appeared to be trying to talk the president down from whatever revenge he was already plotting. 

 

_ OK, so he’s being nice again. And he’s even cuter up close. But he’s still a frat guy. Fuck him. _

 

Keith ran past and smacked the guy on the ass, leaving a “Keith Kogane was here” mud handprint on the white sheet. 

 

While the majority of the team stumbled off to their usual dingy tavern, Keith walked back to his dorm, laughing to himself the whole way. He hoped those were actual sheets the frat boy used and that the mud stain would remind him of the rugby team everytime he crawled into bed.

 

Although, the boy had sort of left his own mark as well. Keith’s entire hand stung like hell and the pain radiated up his forearm for almost ten minutes. It literally felt like he’d slapped a brick wall.

 

\----- 

 

The rumor around campus on Friday during Keith’s physics lecture was that the Sig Ep toga party was a complete disaster; the worst in the history of toga parties. Apparently the frat house was repulsively dirty and there was a severe alcohol shortage.

 

\-----

 

Rookies had the unenviable task of taking turns to wash the rugby uniforms. After a horrifically muddy away game on Saturday, Keith and Pidge found themselves knees deep in funky rugby gear at the laundromat on Sunday afternoon.

 

“This is such crap,” Keith complained, holding up a disgusting pair of shorts. “Although I think I figured out the reason for Swamp Thing’s nickname.”

 

“Swamp ass,” Pidge stated without even looking up at the offending garment.

 

Keith shuddered an affirmative and tossed the shorts into the industrial washer.

 

After cramming the jerseys, shorts, and socks into four machines, and depositing the appropriate amount of quarters, Keith dug his calculus homework out of his red backpack. 

 

“You’re staying here?” Pidge asked, shouldering their bag.

 

“Yeah, by the time I walk back to my dorm, I’d just have to turn back around to change the laundry.”

 

“My dorm is close by. You’re welcome to hang there.”

 

Keith shrugged. “Nah, it’s OK.” He was gradually becoming more comfortable around his teammates, but socializing outside of team-related activities still felt a little strange for him.

 

Pidge didn’t push the issue. “All right. I’ll be back in thirty to help you switch everything out.”

 

Keith posted up at the long table that ran down the center of the establishment for laundromat-goers to fold their laundry. Immediately burying his nose in his work, he paid no mind to the people that came and went. And came and paused. 

 

And stared. 

 

And collected their clothes from the dryer, constantly looking over their shoulder in Keith’s direction. 

 

And began folding their clothes next to Keith. Very closely. Very meticulously. Eventually grating on Keith’s nerves.  _ There's plenty of room on the other side of the table. And no one folds laundry that slowly! _

 

Keith eventually peered up at the person standing dangerously close to his wider-than-socially-normal interpersonal space and immediately recognized the streak of white hair.  _ Uh-oh.  _

 

The “nice” frat boy. With glutes of titanium.

 

Keith quickly buried his face in his book again. Maybe frat guys were like big, dumb T-rexes. If you don’t move, they can’t see you.  _ Wait, wasn’t that debunked? Why would  _ Jurassic Park _ lie to me like that? Whatever. Maybe they’re more like bears? If you play dead, they get bored and walk away.  _

 

While Keith considered the logistics and feasibility of silently slumping to the ground and hiding under the table, a flying pair of black boxer briefs stopped him mid-thought as they landed on his text book. “Ugh, control yourself!” the frat boy gasped dramatically, snatching back his undies.

 

“Um… what?” Keith looked up with confusion and saw the boy giggling at his own embarrassing situation. 

 

“Sorry. There was… static. And airborne underwear and…” the boy explained, chuckling and trying to shake one staticky sock from another. “Apparently I really need to invest in some dryer sheets.” 

 

Taking a longer look at the boy, Keith quickly realized why his laundry folding seemed more deliberate than usually called for. He had an above-elbow amputation. How had he not noticed that before? Regardless, Keith just looked back down and chose to ignore the cute boy. And his own discomfort.  _ He still doesn’t realize who I am, right? Don’t engage. _

 

“ _ θ _ =  _ π _ /3.”

 

“Huh?” Keith looked back up from his homework.

 

“The answer. You’ve been staring at that problem for a while. Multivariable calculus?”

 

“Oh… yeah. I thought you were talking, I don’t know, fraternity stuff or something.”

 

The guy laughed. “Calculus fraternity! Theta Pi Cosine!”

 

Keith suppressed a snicker. “You have a terrible sense of humor.”

 

“Can’t take yourself too seriously.”

 

Keith shrugged awkwardly and tried to hide his grin.

 

“Sigma Chi-squared,” the boy said, brainstorming more names for math fraternities.

 

“Stop,” Keith said, laughing this time. “And that’s statistics.”

 

“Ooh, I love a boy that knows his math,” the frat guy purred, folding his boxers surprisingly well with one hand.

 

_ Is it getting warm in here? _

 

“You’re an astrophysics major, right?” 

 

“Uh, yeah.”  _ How did he- _

 

“I’ve seen you around the building.”

 

Keith paused. The guy had noticed him?  _ No. Impossible. _ “You’re one of those people that remembers every face he sees. And you know everyone’s names, right?”  _ That’s one of those weird skills that popular people have. _

 

“No. I remember seeing  _ your _ face. It’s pretty memorable,” he said with a goofy grin.

 

_ Memorable?  _ Keith’s ears suddenly felt hot as he tried not to watch the boy fold yet another pair of underwear.  _ Is he hitting on me? He’s just messing with me. Why is he folding all of his underwear right how? Can’t he do that at home? And who  _ folds _ underwear? _

 

The boy continued. “And I don’t think I ever got your name. I’m Takashi, but everyone calls me Shiro.” 

 

_ Shiro.  _ He’d definitely heard that name around on campus. Keith had actually wondered how people went about making a name for themselves among a college campus of twenty thousand people.  _ Fraternity brother, star student, good looks, outgoing personality. Shapely, rock-hard ass cheeks... _

 

_ Too complicated for me _ .

 

“Do I get to find out  _ your _ name? The suspense is killing me.”

 

Keith looked up with a raised eyebrow, but there wasn’t a shred of ridicule in the guy’s voice. “Um, it’s… It’s Keith.”

 

“Keith…” Shiro repeated, rummaging in his laundry basket. “Keith… Now I know who’s handprint I’m sleeping on.” Shiro held up a white sheet with a faded, Keith-sized handprint. “I don’t think it’s going to come out.”

 

His stomach suddenly felt queasy.  _ I knew I shouldn’t have told him my name. Quick. Insult him.  _ “Well, you’re an idiot because you don’t sleep on top of the loose sheet. That’s what the fitted sheet is for.”

 

Shiro just played along. “Oh, man. You mean your handprint will just wind up crumpled on the floor next to my bed every night? I need a re-do and I’m going to wear a fitted sheet next time.”

 

Keith snorted. “That would look ridiculous.”

 

“Yeah, it would look like a nightgown my grandmother sleeps in. Although, wearing bedding for a party is pretty ridiculous to begin with.”

 

“You could say that,” Keith replied, trying to sound judgmental.

 

“Well, that whole thing the team pulled was a pretty good prank,” Shiro offered. “The guys deserved it and that couch needed to be replaced anyway. But beating dirt and grass out of the shag rug from the living room was  _ not  _ fun.”

 

Keith didn’t reply and went back to rereading the same calc problem that he’d been staring at since this whole interaction had started. He didn’t have anything more to say.  _ And this is where the conversation starts getting awkward. This is why I hate talking to people. No matter how hot- No. Cute- No. Completely average. No matter how completely average-looking they are. _

 

“You should come to a normal party some time.”

 

“Like… the whole rugby team?”

 

“Well, I meant  _ you. _ We can take baby steps with the rest of the team.”

 

_ My ears aren’t red, are they? Don’t act excited.  _ “Um… maybe... I guess.” 

 

“Keith, you’re not leaving me with a lot of confidence here.”

 

“That must be a first.”

 

Shiro just laughed off Keith’s snark-asm.  “Seriously, come to our party this Thursday.”

 

“Maybe,” Keith responded, desperately trying to keep his eyes glued to his book.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Shiro piled folded laundry into the basket and picked it up. “Don’t disappoint me.”

 

“I disappoint quite often, actually.”

 

Shiro ducked his head closer to get Keith to look him in the eye. “You got into the astrophysics program at Garrison Tech. And you can take down people twice your size on the rugby field. Give yourself a little more credit.” Shiro then headed towards the exit. “See you Thursday!” he called over his shoulder.

 

\----- 

 

As Keith approached the field for practice on Tuesday, he spotted Hunk and Pidge hunched down among hundreds of little white handles sticking out of the ground. 

 

“Sporks!” Hunk called, holding a plastic utensil up just in case Keith wasn’t sure what a spork was.

 

Keith’s shoulders sank as he surveyed the damage. “This is going to take forever. There’s hundreds of them. Ballsac’s going to have a conniption.”

 

“I just feel bad that they wasted such a great utensil, you know?” Hunk lamented, admiring the spork in his hand. “I’ve seen people use forks to do this sort of thing. And plastic knives are worthless, no one would miss those. But sporks… They’re so efficient and- it’s just… such wasted potential. I wonder if the café in the student center is completely wiped out. What am I going to eat with?”

 

Pidge just looked annoyed. “Hunk… A normal fork will suffice.”

 

“But it’s not the same!”

 

Gritting his teeth, Keith considered knocking on the fraternity’s door and giving them an earful. Maybe even shiv the bratty president in the ribs with a spork. That was feasible, right? If he did it hard enough?

 

But instead, he knelt on the ground and helped his fellow teammates remove sporks from the much-abused turf. “I guess the field needed aerating anyway,” Keith reluctantly offered.

 

“I think the massive craters were doing the job just fine,” Pidge replied.

 

Keith then recognized the rattling of Ballsac’s truck as it pulled up to the field. The door creaked open and he heard a shout. “What the _ fuck _ ? Are those sporks?!”

 

\-----

 

On Thursday night, Keith finished studying. And then he paced. And checked the time. And contemplated his limited wardrobe by blankly staring at his closet. And then Keith… wait for it… did  _ not _ got to the party.

 

He couldn’t ask Pidge or Hunk to come with him. What would they think? They’d literally signed a sheet of paper stating that they wouldn’t associate with Shiro’s fraternity.

 

And he hated the idea of showing up alone. Shiro would maybe talk to him for fifteen minutes and then run off to socialize, leaving Keith to finish his terrible beer by himself. That’s what popular guys were like. Keith would sit on some nasty, stained couch and pray that no one was noticing that he was drinking alone. And then he’d leave the party and Shiro probably wouldn’t notice anyway.

 

So Keith stayed in his dorm and thought about the boy’s smile as he drifted off to sleep. Actually, he thought about how hard the boy’s ass was and what the rest of him must be like. But his smile was nice, too.

 


	2. Hookers and Wet T-shirt Contests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro tries to prove his worthiness. Keith does a terrible job of maintaining his composure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some silly fratty antics to distract myself from the impending season 7 madness. I'm not freaking out. Seriously I'm not- OK, I'm FREAKING OUT.
> 
>  
> 
> For those unfamiliar with rugby, a “try” is the equivalent to a touchdown in American football. Except that you actually have to touch the ball down in rugby. I know, common sense, right?
> 
> Huge thanks as always to [avidbeader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/avidbeader) for beta reading!!!

 

Rising above the raucous din of the rugby house, Keith heard Ballsac’s voice. “Hey, zulu warrior!!”

 

“Zulu warrior!!” the two teams answered the call.

 

The Garrison rugby team had actually won today and Keith was riding high after scoring his very first try. Everyone on the team had congratulated him, ruffled his hair, and gushed over how he broke three tackles to ground the ball a mere centimeter past the goal line.

 

But Keith was oblivious to one little detail…

 

He’d heard the chants at one of their away games but hadn’t figured out why one of the opposing team’s players had to strip down and run around naked at the tavern. He’d assumed it was that particular team’s hazing ritual.

 

“Hey, zulu warrior! Dorothy and Twiggs, get your asses up here!” Ballsac called out while the away team’s captain hauled their participating player out from his hiding spot behind the couch.

 

Hunk looked at Keith anxiously. Or at least more anxiously than usual. “I’m dreading my first try for this very reason. I’m never ever going to score,” Hunk announced to Pidge as Keith was pulled toward the makeshift bar in the living area.

 

Utterly clueless, Keith asked, “What’s going on?”

 

“Seriously?” Ballsac looked at him with surprise. “You didn’t pay attention when I explained all the rules?”

 

“Well, I paid attention to the rules of the actual game. But not all the traditions and drinking songs and stuff.”

 

Ballsac shook his head. “Oh, jeez, Dorothy. You’re doing a zulu.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

The senior players standing near Ballsac laughed.

 

Ballsac ignored Keith’s question and addressed the crowd. “Brave zulu warriors! We’ve decided to make your night extra-special. Normally we make our zulu warriors run out of the house, across the street, and then back. But to thank the SigEps for our lifetime supply of sporks and their continued support during our home games, you will cut through the Burger King parking lot, cross Main Street, and run to the SigEp house. And then you can turn around, come back, and put your clothes back on.”

 

“What?! What do you mean, put my clothes back on?” Keith shouted while Twiggs reluctantly pulled off his jersey. The away team player sobbed and pulled down his shorts.

 

“You have to do all that naked, rookie. That’s a zulu. That’s what you do when you score your very first try,” Ballasac answered.

 

Keith’s blood went cold. “I have to take off _everything_?!”

 

“Well, you can leave your socks and shoes on.”

 

_This is bullshit. No wonder Hunk looked so concerned._

 

While Keith tried to not panic, the entire house started chanting, “Hey, zulu warrior!”

 

_Streaking… to the frat house. Fucking awesome._

 

Keith yanked off his uniform with shaking hands, took a deep breath, and pulled off his underwear. He then bolted toward the door while his teammates jeered and whooped.

 

“Oh god, it’s cold tonight!” Twiggs squealed as they ran through the thankfully empty Burger King parking lot. A carload of girls cat-called at them as they ran across the street toward the fraternity.

 

_Please don’t let there be a party. Please don’t let there be a party._

 

Or better: _Please don’t let him be there. Please don’t let him be there._

 

The house came into sight and looked relatively quiet. But there were a few people casually drinking on the porch. He immediately recognized Shiro, Solo cup in hand, leaning on the doorframe. “You have to touch the door!” Ballsac yelled as he supervised from across the street to ensure his instructions were followed. And hopefully talk the police out of arresting them for public indecency in the event that they were caught.

 

Accepting that his dignity was somewhere between irreparable and absolutely fucked, Keith pulled ahead of his fellow streakers and plowed through the open front gate. Shiro’s mouth fell wide open at the sight of a pale, lithe boy sprinting toward him at full speed. Naked. Well, except for the striped tube socks and ripped Converse.

 

Keith dashed up the steps and reached for the doorknob, stealing a quick glance up at Shiro. For some reason, he offered up a breathless, “Hey,” before turning and running like a bat out of hell and back to the rugby house.

 

\-----

 

Luckily, there was only a light smattering of beer cans for the rookies to clean up the following week. On top of that, the frat house had stayed quiet during the next home match. OK, calling it a match was a stretch. It was a complete beating. The Garrison rugby team lost twenty-six to zero. But the well-funded away team had brought fifteen fans with them which vastly improved their attendance average, so Ballsac wasn’t complaining.

 

The team opted for an on-field after-party rather than going back to their rugby house in hopes to annoy the fraternity brothers that might be sleeping off their Saturday morning hangovers. Ballsac, Stone, and Marshmallow left to pick up a keg while the rookies collected the water coolers, cones, and practice balls.

 

Keith walked up to the bleachers to change out of his cleats and tripped over absolutely nothing when he saw Shiro waiting on the highest seat. He wore a non-fraternity branded hat and had the bill pulled low, hiding the white streak of hair. _How long has he been there?_

 

“Good game!” he called while Keith hesitantly approached.

 

“Obviously you didn’t watch the game. We lost,” Keith replied without any bite. He was too busy considering the slim odds that Shiro wouldn’t remember his skinny white ass from last weekend.

 

“I watched the game. Or at least the second half.”

 

“Really? You’ve been sitting here that long and Ballsac didn’t threaten your life?”

 

“I watched most of it from my window. I can see you from my bedroom,” Shiro said with a daydreamy smile.

 

Heat pricked at the tips of Keith’s ears. “That’s not creepy or anything.”

 

Shiro laughed. “Yeah, when I say it out loud like that it sounds bad. I’m just admiring from afar.”

 

_Is this guy watching me while I do laps and pull sporks out of the field?_ Keith sat down on the corner of the lowest bench, keeping his distance. “Thanks for the sporks, by the way,” he said bitterly. _That ought to teach this frat guy a lesson for flirting with the wrong boy._

 

“Sorry… I tried talking the president out of it.”

 

“Well, thanks for the half-assed effort, I guess.”

 

“You didn’t come to the party last Thursday,” Shiro noted, sliding down a level closer. Stiffening at the encroachment, Keith ignored the slight dejection in Shiro’s voice. _Frat guys don’t have feelings._

 

“I never said yes. I said _maybe_. I don’t like parties.”

 

“What _do_ you like, then?”

 

“To be left alone,” Keith muttered, finally working the double knot in his laces loose. _Little does this guy know, I’ve mastered the art of pushing people away._

 

Shiro stood and stepped down the bleachers to sit next to Keith.

 

“Did you not hear me?” Keith said over the sound of his own pounding heart. “And I wouldn’t get too close, I can’t be held responsible for what my cleats smell like.”

 

“I’m sure they smell like roses and cotton candy.”

 

Keith wrinkled his nose as he pulled off his left rugby boot. “Actually, I don’t think they’ve dried out since that mudfest of a game two weekends ago.”

 

Pidge’s voice could suddenly be heard among the mingling ruggers. “Keith! Is that you?!”

 

“Pidge, you can _not_ smell my cleats from over there! You’re standing next to Hunk!” Keith called back.

 

“Hunk has a different smell. Trust me, we’re roommates,” Pidge replied as they approached, eyeing Shiro suspiciously.

 

“What’s with all these crazy nicknames?” Shiro asked. “There’s Hunk, Ballsac, Trash Stache, and Stone.”

 

“Yeah. Marshmallow, Swamp Thing, Ginger Spice, Shithead, Twiggs, Sea Bass…” Keith rattled off the other nicknames that came to mind. “I don’t know, it’s a rugby thing. Even the other teams we play have all kinds of nicknames. There’s usually a story behind each one.”

 

“So… Stone’s nickname is because he’s like a rock and hard to knock down?” Shiro guessed.

 

“No, well, yeah, but more because he smokes a ton of weed.”

 

“Oh. And Twiggs… I uh… assuming it’s… I saw, the other night.”

 

“It was originally because of his scrawny legs but since our zulu... it’s taken on a whole new meaning.” Keith raised an eyebrow. “Why? You were looking?”

 

“It was hard not to, especially with you leading the pack. I almost didn’t recognize you today with all your clothes on.”

 

_So much for my one-in-ten thousand odds._

 

“What’s _your_ nickname?” Shiro asked.

 

“Dorothy,” Keith replied, distracting himself with the laces on his sneakers.

 

“Dorothy?! Like from _The Golden Girls_ ? You _do_ seem like the cranky one of the bunch. Do you wear sequined jackets with shoulder pads when no one’s around?” Shiro’s eyes were wide with amusement.

 

Keith forgot that he was doing a shit job of pushing this guy away and let himself laugh. “No. It’s because of my red cleats.”

 

“Oh, like _The Wizard of Oz_? I was kind of hoping for sequined shoulderpads.”

 

“I don’t know, Keith,” Pidge chimed in. “That would be a great Halloween costume for you.”

 

“I agree,” Shiro teased. “So, what’s your position? I couldn’t really follow the game.”

 

“That’s because today’s game was a clusterfuck,” Keith answered.

 

“No, I tried watching professional rugby on TV earlier this week. I still can’t figure out what the hell is going on.”

 

Pidge and Keith’s eyes met. This guy had made an effort to understand a game that Keith barely understood. And he played the damn sport.

 

“I’m the hooker,” Keith responded.

 

“Is that another nickname or is that actually what your position is called?”

 

“That’s actually the position. I hook the ball in the scrum.”

 

“Seriously?” Shiro asked, looking to Pidge.

 

“He’s a hooker,” they confirmed with a satisfied grin.

 

“So…” Shiro inched closer along the bench. “I could tell my mom that I spent my Saturday morning with a hooker named Dorothy and I would be completely telling the truth?”

 

Keith burst out laughing. “Well, you’d be _stretching_ the truth. We’re not really spending time together.”

 

Pretending to be hurt, Shiro placed his hand over his heart. “Keith, don’t take this from me. Let a guy dream, OK?”

 

_Did the sun just come out from behind a cloud? Why is it so fucking hot all of a sudden?_ Keith busied himself untying the sneaker he’d just tied, but he could hear his teammates returning and unloading the keg from the back of Ballsac’s truck. “You should probably go,” Keith said in a low voice, not really wanting Shiro to leave but not wanting to witness the repercussions of him staying.

 

“Dorothy!” Ballsac approached from behind and put a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “We were talking on the ride back, I want to try you as fly-half during practice next week. I think you’d be good at offense and you’d get more playing time between both positions.”

 

“Uh, sure. I’ll try fly-half,” Keith offered, hoping a quick answer would detract from the frat-guy-shaped wall of muscle sitting beside him.

 

“A fly hooker. This just keeps getting better,” Shiro commented under his breath.

 

“Great! Sea Bass will teach you the plays on Tuesday,” Ballsac continued. “I think- Keith... Why are you red? Are you OK? Did you overheat from the game? I guess it’s unseasonably warm for October but-”

 

Keith ducked his head to hide his blush. “Uh, no. I’m not red.”

 

“You match your cleats,” Pidge observed.

 

“Yeah, man. You’re super red,” Ballsac agreed. Then he stiffened when he looked to Keith’s left, quickly recognizing Shiro. “What are _you_ doing here?”

 

“Just chatting with Dorothy,” Shiro responded nonchalantly.

 

“Don’t talk to my hooker. Get the fuck off my field,” Ballsac spat.

 

“I think Dorothy’s his own hooker.” Shiro was clearly amused by Keith’s position. And nickname. “Look, I’ve tried talking my brothers down but you guys retaliate and then they have to get back at you and- It’s just snowballed.”

 

“I’m not letting you guys have the last laugh,” Ballsac argued.

 

“Seriously, they’ll lose interest if you guys just leave it alone.”

 

Keith noted his frat guy/bear analogy from the laundromat. Apparently he hadn’t been that far off.

 

Ballsac wasn’t having it. “I need you to get the fuck off my field, frat boy.”

 

Shiro slowly stood, holding his hand up. “I’m not here to cause any problems. I’m just going to finish talking to Keith and then I’ll leave.”

 

Ballsac spun around to face the two teams and shouted, “Ruggers! Do frat boys belong on the rugby field?!”

 

“FUCK NO!” the players roared back.

 

“Welp, it’s unanimous. Outta of my sight, _bro_.”

 

Stone jogged over with an evil grin on his face. “If he wants to stay, I say we make him shoot the boot to prove himself.”

 

Ballsac narrowed his eyes considering the interesting proposition. The rest of the team had already heard the magic words, however, and began chanting: “Shoot the boot! Shoot the boot!”

 

Shiro shrugged. “I’ll shoot the boot. What do I have to do?”

 

Keith covered his face. “You really don’t want to do that…”

 

Ballsac beamed mischievously. “If you shoot the boot and keep it down, you can stay.” He then turned to Hunk, who probably had the biggest feet on the team. “Rookie! I need your boot.”

 

Hunk’s shoulder sank. “Oh man… really? But it’ll get all soggy and… ugh, my dorm’s gonna start smelling like stale beer,” he rambled while removing his left rugby boot and reluctantly surrendering it to the rugby team’s cause.

 

“Our dorm already smells like stale beer,” Pidge corrected. “I’m getting a roommate with smaller feet next year.”

 

Shiro remained cool and confident. “OK, so I just have to drink beer out of this disgusting shoe? No offense, Hunk.”

 

“None taken.”

 

“The shoe will contain approximately eighty-five percent beer. I can’t speak to the rest of its contents. That’s up to the team,” Ballsac waved a hand over the dirty and disheveled rugby players.

 

“Seriously, they put nasty shit in there,” Keith warned.

 

“Bring it,” Shiro challenged, chin jutting out with fierce determination. The divinely sculpted angles of his jawline did _not_ make Keith’s knees weak.

 

The team passed Hunk’s rugby boot around, pouring beer into it and adding their own personal touches: grass, dirt, bourbon, cider, and spit. And pubic hair.

 

“Well, I’m assuming that’s Ginger Spice,” Shiro said to Keith as he watched the pubic hair being sprinkled on top as if it were a garnish. “You guys are foul.”

 

“Yep,” Keith agreed with pride.

 

Shiro suppressed a cringe.

 

Hunk visibly shuddered.

 

“Here you are, frat boy,” the team captain sneered, presenting the concoction. “Shoot the boot. Whatever you can’t drink, you’ve got to pour on your head.”

 

Shiro took a deep breath. “All this to impress a boy,” Shiro whispered to Keith. “It's totally worth it.”

 

Keith hoped to god he wasn’t blushing again but the blood was already rushing to his cheeks and-

 

“Keith, you’re red again! What’s going on with you?” Ballsac yelled among the commotion.

 

_Fuck me..._

 

The two teams continued chanting “shoot the boot” while Shiro chugged the vile contents of Hunk’s boot. Of course the guy knew how to chug, he probably shotgunned beers in his sleep. But he did have to pause once to catch his breath and focus on keeping the mixture down. He poured the last remaining drops over his head, made a strange growling-wincing sound, and then threw the boot on the ground.

 

“OK, OK,” Ballsac shouted, trying to quiet his teammates in order to announce his verdict. “That was surprisingly impressive. Well-played frat boy. You can stay for… five minutes.”

 

“Five minutes?!”

 

Keith laughed and playfully shoved Shiro but Shiro quickly grabbed Keith around the waist and pulled him in. “You’re high-maintenance,” he murmured into Keith’s hair.

 

Keith pulled away as to avoid blushing profusely. Again. “Yep. All that for five minutes.”

 

“I told you, totally worth it. Can I see you later?”

 

“I have to do this for a little while,” Keith gestured at the rowdy chaos that was unfolding before them on the field.

 

“What about afterward? We’re having a party tonight.”

 

“Another one? It that all you guys do?”

 

“Eh… more or less. I have to study tomorrow so it won’t be too late of a night.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Keith,” Shiro whined. “I can’t just sit around, looking out the window all night waiting for you.”

 

“Oh my god, that is _not_ what you’re going to be doing. I’m going to walk in that front door and you’re going to be doing kegstands or judging a wet T-shirt contest or some stupid bullshit.”

 

Shiro shrugged. “Can’t rule it out.”

 

“My point exactly.”

 

“Well, what if _I’m_ participating in the wet T-shirt contest? Would that be worth your time?”

 

“Uh… Well.. I-” _...can’t handle that._

 

Shiro grinned at Keith’s blushing and sputtering. “Come by if you can. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go vomit in the privacy of my shared bathroom.”

 

Keith offered a noncommittal nod. In all likelihood, Keith would drink too much at the rugby party and pass out on his twin bed long before the sun set, completely missing Shiro’s party. But Keith was OK with that. He didn’t go to frat parties.

 

Or did he...

 

\-----

 

“Did you get enough beauty rest, Dorothy?”

 

Keith opened his eyes and found himself curled up in a chair in Pidge and Hunk’s dorm room which smelled of stale beer and nacho cheese. “Ugh, what happened?” he asked, stretching his arms overhead.

 

“You drank a lot and then we brought you back here to eat some food,” Hunk explained. “You inhaled eight tacos from the cafeteria and then passed out the second you sat down. But like, eight tacos! I’m impressed. I don’t know where you put it all.”

 

“It takes a lot of energy, resisting all of those gentleman callers,” Pidge needled.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Well once you had enough beer in you, you wouldn’t stop blabbing about that guy.”

 

Keith covered his face. “That didn’t happen.”

 

“You were blushing the entire time you were around him.”

 

“I… don’t blush,” Keith mumbled into his hands.

 

“Well, apparently you do it around him,” Pidge said. “I mean, he’s fratty. But he’s cute. And he’s very smart. He’s been helping my dad with a lot of his research.”

 

“Seriously, don’t tell the team. I was just drunk and rambling and- Wait, you know him?” Keith asked, peeking between his fingers.

 

“I know _of_ him. I’ve never really met him until today. And you didn’t do a very good job introducing us.”

 

“I don’t think my brain functions around him.”

 

“No shit, Dorothy. But, practice makes perfect, kiddo. Let’s get you cleaned up and to the ball. Don’t want to keep Prince Charming waiting,” Pidge said, pulling Keith off of the chair.

 

“Oh. No. No, I’m- I’m not going. I can’t go,” Keith stammered.

 

Hunk cocked his head. “That’s weird. You wouldn’t shut up about him during dinner. Well, you know, between the tacos.” He then began tapping his chin, “I wonder if Garrison Tech has any competitive eating teams. We need to sign you up.”

 

“Really, I don’t want to go,” Keith lied, resisting Pidge’s surprisingly strong grip on his arm.

 

“Don’t make me carry you, Dorothy,” Pidge threatened. “Go shower and change. You somehow still have grass in your hair,” they said, plucking a few blades of wilted turf from Keith’s mess of a mullet.

 

“I’m still drunk,” Keith protested weakly.

 

“Good. Without your standard antisocial Keith filter, you can tell that boy what you think so I don’t have to listen to it anymore,” Pidge countered.

 

\-----

 

“Why isn’t drinking entertainment enough?” Keith said while pondering the flip cup competition taking place on a rickety table in the front lawn.

 

“I’m guessing it’s an excuse to drink faster than what would otherwise be socially frowned upon,” Hunk answered thoughtfully.

 

“Like the rugby drinking songs are any different,” Pidge pointed out.

 

Once inside, Keith immediately began scanning the crowd. “Um… why are all those girls’ shirts wet? What the hell happened here?”

 

Pidge rolled their eyes. “I’m going to go ahead and use my deductive reasoning here. It looks like they had a wet T-shirt contest.”

 

“Really?” Keith questioned. “That’s actually something that happens?”

 

“Yeah. They’re classy like that.”

 

“I can’t believe we’re here,” Keith grumbled as they pushed past chest-bumping bros and wandered out into the backyard where they found additional evidence of the contest. Two sprinklers were still running in the far corner of the backyard, a few people laughing and running through them, stepping over the ice cubes strewn across the lawn.

 

“If we stay long enough we might get to see some mud wrestling,” Pidge observed. “It’s like a two-for-one special.”

 

“Not going to happen. We’re not staying that long,” Keith shot back.

 

“Actually, I wonder if I can position this to water some of our field,” Hunk mused as he cautiously approached the sprinklers.

 

“Come on, Hunk. It’s pointless. Let’s just go,” Keith said, anxiously looking around for Shiro.

 

Of course, that was the moment Shiro spotted Keith. He set his cup down on a picnic table painted in the fraternity’s colors and threw his hand up in excitement. “You came!”

 

As Shiro neared, Keith suddenly started feeling overwhelmed by the frattiness of his surroundings. Crappy top-forty dance music, Greek letters, a two-story beer bong, snapback hats. Way too many snapback hats. “We should probably leave,” he mumbled to Pidge and Hunk. _We should leave before I embarrass myself._

 

“He already saw you! You can’t just leave,” Pidge hissed.

 

“Hey guys! I’m glad you could make it,” Shiro greeted as he closed in.

 

“Yep,” Keith replied awkwardly. “We… are here...”

 

“Seriously?” Pidge said under their breath before elbowing Keith in the ribs.

 

“Looks like we missed the main event,” Keith said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the sprinklers and ice. “I was actually joking about the wet T-shirt contest thing.”

 

“Yeah…” Shiro scrubbed at his undercut. Keith couldn’t help but notice how his bicep flexed ever so slightly. “It sort of just… happened.”

 

“How are you feeling after shooting the boot?” Pidge teased.

 

“Better now. That weird taste in my mouth is finally gone but I feel like I still have something stuck in the back of my throat. I’m really hoping it’s grass... Hunk, how’s your shoe?”

 

“Uh, still squishy.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Hunk shrugged. “I’m sort of used to it.”

 

“And you’re Pidge, right?” Shiro extended his hand. “Are you related to Professor Holt? You two look a lot alike.”

 

“Yeah,” Pidge hesitantly offered. “He’s my… relative.”

 

“Oh, cool! He’s my favorite professor in the astrophysics program. Does… does he know you play rugby? It’s a pretty rough sport and I don’t think he’s a fan of-”

 

“Not a word! That stays between us, OK?” Pidge growled, pointing their finger in Shiro’s face.

 

“Um, sure. OK.” Shiro took a step backward and Keith found himself amused that Pidge could effectively intimidate someone Shiro’s size with just their index finger. “So… cool. Um, you guys want something to drink? The keg is-”

 

“We’ll just follow the red cups and listen for chanting,” Pidge interrupted as they grabbed Hunk by the arm.

 

_No, don’t leave me… traitors!_ Keith looked around the backyard nervously, unsure of what to say to keep the conversation flowing. Not that the past three minutes had been all that successful. Keith had stumbled over his first words to Shiro, criticized him for hosting a wet T-shirt contest, and then Pidge threatened him. _This is why I don’t have friends._ But it took more than offensive foot odor, ginger pubic hair, menacing rugby players, and awkward conversation to deter this frat boy. Shiro reached his hand out and traced the collar of Keith’s jacket. “You look cute. Red’s a great color on you.”

 

Keith’s gut did a strange twisting-flopping thing. “Um…Thanks.” _I know it’s dark but_ _no more blushing!_

 

A lanky fraternity brother sitting at the picnic table a few feet behind Shiro suddenly stood up and wildly gestured, trying to get Shiro’s attention. “Shiro! Check this out!”

 

Shiro quickly glanced over his shoulder and waved his hand. “Yeah, that’s cool, Lance.”

 

“Shiro, you didn’t even look! This is the tallest beeramid ever!”

 

This time, Shiro’s gaze lingered an extra two seconds. “Cool. Good job, Lance.”

 

The boy deflated instantaneously. His eyes narrowed and zeroed in on Keith.

 

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”

 

“Oh, that’s Lance. He’s my little. He’s cool, he just needs constant reassurance and attention.”

 

“Well, I think he wants to bite my head off,” Keith replied, watching the jealous boy stalk over.

 

“What’s up, man?” Lance greeted. “Nice mullet. Too bad Eighties Night is _next_ weekend.”

 

“Lance!” Shiro scolded.

 

Lance ignored Shiro and looked Keith up and down. “A mullet _and_ a fanny pack? Seriously? It’s not even Hallowee- Wait a sec,” Lance paused his heckling, recognizing Keith. “You’re from the rugby team! I’ve seen your little white butt!”

 

Pulling Lance into a bro huddle, Shiro spoke in a low voice. “Hey, we’re going to keep that between us, OK? My friend and I are just talking about a lab assignment for class. You know what? I could use another beer.”

 

Eager to please, Lance fell for the distraction. “OK, Shiro. You got it.” He left, but not without shooting one more glare in Keith’s direction.

 

“I’ll go if he’s going to be a jealous little shit,” Keith started.

 

“You just got here, please stay,” Shiro pleaded as more of the party spilled out into the backyard.

 

“I have to get a paper done. And we have a stupid fundraiser tomorrow.”

 

“A fundraiser! For the team? What are you doing?”

 

Keith groaned. “It’s a car wash. Ballsac is lazy about planning something decent so… car wash it is.”

 

“Oh man, I don’t have a car or else I’d stop by.”

 

“Don’t bother, it’s stupid.”

 

“Will you wash a bicycle?”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you always this cranky?” Shiro teased.

 

“It’s- I’ve been drinking all day.”

 

“You’re grouchy when you’re sober, too.”

 

“Well, you should probably stop talking to me, then.”

 

Shiro laughed. “It's super cute. Sorry, am I making you crankier?”

 

“No…” _You’re making me feel... funny._

 

“Shiro! Come bong this beer with me!” Lance called from house. “Shiro? Shiro?!”

 

“That guy isn’t helping,” Keith commented.

 

“Let’s see, how can I make you less cranky,” Shiro said, looking around for ideas. “The only time I saw you really smile today was when I was making an idiot of myself by drinking beer out of Hunk’s shoe.”

 

“And pubic hair,” Keith reminded with a smirk.

 

Shiro cleared his throat. “Don’t remind me. How else can I make you smile? Something tells me you won’t be impressed with my keg stand abilities.”

 

“Probably not.”

 

Shiro grinned and backed away from Keith and towards the sprinklers. “Would it cheer you up if I participated in the wet T-shirt contest?”

 

“You’re going to -” _Oh god._ Keith tried to speak but his mouth suddenly went dry at the thought of damp clothing clinging to Shiro’s muscular curves…

 

“Would that cheer you up?” Shiro teased, dangerously inching toward the sprinklers.

 

_Yes._ “No… stop….”

 

The rest of the party-goers outside noticed Shiro’s proximity to the sprinklers and began cheering him on. Then a few people ran up and pushed him in, following with some of the icy water left in one of the otherwise empty coolers nearby.

 

Shiro’s pale lavender tee quickly became drenched and Keith tried not to watch. But it was impossible to tear his eyes away. He was dripping. Devastating. It was the stuff wet dreams were made of and Keith was already taking pity on the disgustingly sticky future that awaited his bedding.

 

Suddenly there was a warmth trickling down Keith’s nose and a metallic taste in his mouth. He covered his nose with his hand and looked around in panic just as Hunk and Pidge returned.

 

“Did you just push him in the sprinkler?” Hunk questioned as more people jumped into the sprinklers. “Are you one of those kids that hits people when you actually like them?”

 

“Keith? Is your nose bleeding?” Pidge shouted over the commotion. “What happened?”

 

“Pectorals,” Keith blurted. “I mean- I-”

 

“Huh? What are you talking about?

 

“No. His- abdominals- Oh… fuck,” Keith sputtered as more blood dripped from his nose and between his fingers.

 

Pidge quickly assessed the situation. “Do we need to get you out of here?”

 

Keith nodded. “Yes. I- see nipples.”

 

“I don’t know why that’s a problem, but OK. Come on, Dorothy.” Pidge led Keith through the mass of people, into the house, and out onto the front lawn.

 

Once on the sidewalk, Keith tried to catch his breath while pinching his nose. Hunk darted out of the house shortly after with an entire roll of toilet paper in hand and shoved it into Keith’s face. _It’s the thought that counts..._

 

Pidge crossed their arms. “Well, that backfired. I thought small doses of manliness would help you function around him. Are you all right?”

 

“I… need a minute. He just had… lots of…”

 

“Definition?” Hunk offered to complete Keith’s sentence.

 

“Muscles?” Pidge guessed.

 

“Oh! I got it! Eyelashes?!” Hunk excited shouted.

 

Pidge shot Hunk an annoyed glance. “Hunk… eyelashes?”

 

“He has very full eyelashes,” Hunk observed. Keith secretly agreed.

 

Taking one last steadying breath through his mouth, he gestured sort of in the direction of the house where Shiro stood in all of his wet, sultry godliness. “All of the above. It was too much. He’s too hot for me.” Keith’s voice was muffled by the toilet paper’s pillowy softness.

 

Pidge shook their head, unconvinced. “That’s a bunch of crap, Dorothy.”

 

Keith unwound the roll, the wiped the remaining blood from his face, and discarded the biohazard on the fraternity’s lawn. “Look, guys like that don’t actually go for people like me. His type are the kind of people that I got into fist fights with in high school when they made fun of me. This is just a game. The rest of the fraternity fucks with our field and he’s fucking with my head. That’s all.”

 

Pidge tried to reason with Keith. “Can you stop being emo for two seconds? I hope you don’t actually think that. He seems to really like you.”

 

“Well, even if that were true… I can’t. The whole team would hate me. We signed that stupid paper. We’re supposed to hate fraternities. Especially this one.”

 

“Dorothy- Keith, who cares? Our team is a fraternity in disguise. We have initiations, hazing, drinking songs, matching collared shirts, and a shitty house where we all congregate. And for the record, Shiro stood up to the team today by shooting the boot. For you. You were too drunk to notice, but after the game, the team didn’t throw _anything_ into the backyard. They won’t hate you if you like a guy from the fraternity. Particularly _that_ guy.”

 

“I don’t like him.”

 

“Your bodily fluids are telling me otherwise.”

 

Keith clenched his eyes shut and dabbed at his nose with the hem of his black tee. _A guy actually likes me and I have to turn it into a big fucking problem. This is so embarrassing._ “Please don’t tell the team.”

 

“I’m not going to but- It doesn’t matter. You can like who you want to like, Keith. Don’t let a bullshit rule get in the way of something more important. We’re going to head back, do you want to crash at our dorm and talk more?”

 

“Nah. I’ll go home. Sorry to drag you guys into this.” Pidge and Hunk exchanged concerned looks as Keith walked away to sort his thoughts.

 

After clearing the wet-T-shirt incident from his head all he could think about was the way Shiro ran his finger along the collar of Keith’s jacket and the way his face lit up when he spotted Keith at the party.

 

Did Shiro genuinely like him? Did his heart race when he saw Keith? Did his palms get sweaty? Did he feel giddy after being around him?

 

What if Pidge was right? He thought about Shiro looking around the house for Keith after he’d abruptly left.

 

But what if he’d already messed everything up?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!!!  
> I don't do much with social media but feel free to scream sheith to me:  
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/latart)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Latart0903)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos, and/or commenting!
> 
> I am eternally indebted to [avidbeader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/avidbeader) for beta reading and dealing with my crappy English skills.


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